Venting
How have you been, old friend? It's been a while.
Four years ago, it was hard for me to imagine getting by without squeezing every last drop of frustration out into this thing like a baby suckling powdered milk from a geriatric's calloused teat. Three years and fifty-one weeks ago, I stopped doing just that. Though I would pop in every now and again to post an update of my latest adventure, it was pure folly, because I knew deep down in the moldy cockles of my heart, something I said would royally piss someone off and before I could pull the pin on the extinguisher, it would be printed out and posted everywhere and I would yet again be made out to look like one of the most insensitive pricks ever to luge out of the great cosmic vag and into existence. I'd know I was a real person, but it would take every influential strategy in my tool kit to persuade everyone else that I wasn't some mutant afterbirth with the extraordinary ability to think and speak for myself.
Lately, I've been thinking differently: if keeping my trap shut to the point I implode on myself with rage constitutes as my formal induction to the human race, I'd rather be the fucking placenta; I want to smell like dead baby steeped in a jar expired tuna water; I want to leave a pink sludge trail behind me so unsuspecting "humans" would slip and flop around in, so that they too will smell like Chicken of the Sea's brand of canned baby goods; I want to infect the world with my potent pungence. Yet for all my talk, I'm not really all that angry this afternoon. I'm frustrated.
I'm frustrated that after four years of full-time college classes, I still won't have a me BA for another two years.
I'm frustrated that the people I've surrounded myself with are complete chumps who don't have the balls to back up their talk.
I'm frustrated that after seven years of preaching my gospel from the highest shit heap, hardly anybody "gets it."
I'm frustrated that after years of wallowing in the expired tuna water of my own self pity, I've finally found a girl who I wholeheartedly adore, and who I've only seen for a combined two hours in the past two weeks.
But most of all, I'm frustrated that I can't hate her for it.
She's a busy person. Remember how balls-out crazy busy I was back in spring 2006, when I was taking six classes in Daytona while logging 40+ hours at my job in St. Augustine on the weekend? Well, she's not quite that busy, but considering that she's working part-time, writing extensive research papers for at least two of her four classes, spending her time in-between practicing a five-person bicycle act, while spending her weekends putting on shows featuring said bicycle act at the campus circus, I've pretty much drawn the losing numbers in the priority raffle. I went to go see her act yesterday, but while I was really excited for her and fought my way through the crowd after the show to be at her side, I was overcome with this really heavy feeling of depression the second I hugged her. "I'm probably not going to see you again for another week," I thought to myself, and then ran to the library before the rain started pouring again.
After years of pissing and moaning about not having anyone, I've finally achieved my goal only to discover it's no different from being single. Spontaneity has gone completely out the window because I have to plan whatever surprise I've got cooking around what little free time she has, which I only find out when she calls me at random times during the week. I drop everything I'm doing, cancel what little plans I have, postpone production on my mountains of homework, and run to her apartment. And for what? To lay on the floor and drape my arm around her waist like some fleshy cummerbund while she types away at whatever paper she's been saddled with this week.
She really is a great person, but I can't help it but to be pissed off at the lack of communication. She doesn't have voicemail and her phone's always on vibrate, so calling her usually doesn't amount to anything but me counting the number of rings before I hang up, but what gets me the most is that she doesn't even answer most of my text messages until sometime the next day.
Pisses. Me. OFF!
Hopefully this venting session will do me some good and help me get through the next couple of days. If not, then I'll end up saying something that will probably result in me being single again for real, whether I intend it or not.
Limbo: a place full of all the promises of Heaven, but due to endless stagnation, is in truth a fate worse than Hell.
The Mad Musician
Four years ago, it was hard for me to imagine getting by without squeezing every last drop of frustration out into this thing like a baby suckling powdered milk from a geriatric's calloused teat. Three years and fifty-one weeks ago, I stopped doing just that. Though I would pop in every now and again to post an update of my latest adventure, it was pure folly, because I knew deep down in the moldy cockles of my heart, something I said would royally piss someone off and before I could pull the pin on the extinguisher, it would be printed out and posted everywhere and I would yet again be made out to look like one of the most insensitive pricks ever to luge out of the great cosmic vag and into existence. I'd know I was a real person, but it would take every influential strategy in my tool kit to persuade everyone else that I wasn't some mutant afterbirth with the extraordinary ability to think and speak for myself.
Lately, I've been thinking differently: if keeping my trap shut to the point I implode on myself with rage constitutes as my formal induction to the human race, I'd rather be the fucking placenta; I want to smell like dead baby steeped in a jar expired tuna water; I want to leave a pink sludge trail behind me so unsuspecting "humans" would slip and flop around in, so that they too will smell like Chicken of the Sea's brand of canned baby goods; I want to infect the world with my potent pungence. Yet for all my talk, I'm not really all that angry this afternoon. I'm frustrated.
I'm frustrated that after four years of full-time college classes, I still won't have a me BA for another two years.
I'm frustrated that the people I've surrounded myself with are complete chumps who don't have the balls to back up their talk.
I'm frustrated that after seven years of preaching my gospel from the highest shit heap, hardly anybody "gets it."
I'm frustrated that after years of wallowing in the expired tuna water of my own self pity, I've finally found a girl who I wholeheartedly adore, and who I've only seen for a combined two hours in the past two weeks.
But most of all, I'm frustrated that I can't hate her for it.
She's a busy person. Remember how balls-out crazy busy I was back in spring 2006, when I was taking six classes in Daytona while logging 40+ hours at my job in St. Augustine on the weekend? Well, she's not quite that busy, but considering that she's working part-time, writing extensive research papers for at least two of her four classes, spending her time in-between practicing a five-person bicycle act, while spending her weekends putting on shows featuring said bicycle act at the campus circus, I've pretty much drawn the losing numbers in the priority raffle. I went to go see her act yesterday, but while I was really excited for her and fought my way through the crowd after the show to be at her side, I was overcome with this really heavy feeling of depression the second I hugged her. "I'm probably not going to see you again for another week," I thought to myself, and then ran to the library before the rain started pouring again.
After years of pissing and moaning about not having anyone, I've finally achieved my goal only to discover it's no different from being single. Spontaneity has gone completely out the window because I have to plan whatever surprise I've got cooking around what little free time she has, which I only find out when she calls me at random times during the week. I drop everything I'm doing, cancel what little plans I have, postpone production on my mountains of homework, and run to her apartment. And for what? To lay on the floor and drape my arm around her waist like some fleshy cummerbund while she types away at whatever paper she's been saddled with this week.
She really is a great person, but I can't help it but to be pissed off at the lack of communication. She doesn't have voicemail and her phone's always on vibrate, so calling her usually doesn't amount to anything but me counting the number of rings before I hang up, but what gets me the most is that she doesn't even answer most of my text messages until sometime the next day.
Pisses. Me. OFF!
Hopefully this venting session will do me some good and help me get through the next couple of days. If not, then I'll end up saying something that will probably result in me being single again for real, whether I intend it or not.
Limbo: a place full of all the promises of Heaven, but due to endless stagnation, is in truth a fate worse than Hell.
The Mad Musician